


Late

by applecameron



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7749838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecameron/pseuds/applecameron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're late because Eames places his palm between Arthur's shoulder blades and pushes him down over the hotel room desk instead of letting him take his suit jacket off its hanger so they can leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late

They're late because Eames places his palm between Arthur's shoulder blades and pushes him down over the hotel room desk instead of letting him take his suit jacket off its hanger so they can leave. "You're not going to give me trouble on this job, are you, pet?" He says it matter-of-factly, as if he's not disposing of the obstacles Arthur's clothes present with one hand while he holds Arthur still, then running his fingers along exposed skin. "You're going to be a good boy for me, yeah?" Arthur's slacks and briefs are pulled down to mid-thigh, trapping him, and Eames pushes his hand between his inner thighs. "Aren't you?" 

Eames ignores Arthur's cock in favor of pressing against his perineum with two fingers, making Arthur jerk against him. "Now, now, that's not what a good boy does." 

Arthur feels his cheeks heat and has to work to hold himself still. He spreads his legs as best he can, the fabric of his clothing tight on his skin. It's not much. He can hear Eames rummaging for the lube bottle in the desk drawer, his success marked with a happy little hum. It only takes a moment before there's a lubed-up finger pressing into him. Arthur moans; he can't stop himself. He can never stop himself, with Eames. 

"Mmmm." Eames sounds pleased. "You love being my boy, Arthur. Don't you." It's not a question. 

One finger becomes two, and Eames strokes around his prostate as Arthur whimpers against the desk. He feels like electricity is building up in the muscles of his legs, his arms. "Yes," he whispers, and shudders as Eames' fingers reward him briefly. 

Eames keeps working him, though, keeps talking. 

"If Cobb asks you why we're late, you'll tell him the truth, won't you, pet?" 

Arthur's face burns as he tries to shake his head. 

Eames huffs in amusement. "Yes, you will. You'll tell him, 'I'm late because I was moaning,'" Eames draws out the word as his fingers draw out the sound from Arthur, making him convulse with pleasure, "'on Eames' fingers like a wanton. That's why I'm late, Cobb.'" 

Arthur moans again, louder, body clenching as a thrill of shame runs through him to pool, low, in his stomach. He can't bear the thought, the humiliation, of admitting what they're doing to Cobb, not like that. Opening his mouth and admitting he's Eames' boy, his _pet_. To _Cobb_. Oh, God, it would be irrevocable. He arches his back, fucking himself on Eames' fingers. Everyone would know, would know that it's Eames, Eames who makes him shatter, makes him beg. Every time Cobb looked at him, he'd see the knowledge in his eyes. Of how debased, how helpless, he is, in the face of Eames' power and control. How Eames uses Arthur for his pleasure whenever and wherever he likes, including over hotel room desks when they should be on their way to a meeting. That it is Eames who takes away all his control and makes him like it. That Arthur abases himself, crawls naked to Eames, grovels for his control, his approval, and his cock, heavy and oh-so-satisfying in his mouth when Eames permits him to suck it. There'd be no turning back from an admission like that. "Oh, god." he says, bucking on Eames' hand, wanting it and afraid of it, at the same time. 

"Say it." 

Eames is toying with him, building up the pleasure to successively higher plateaus. Still he gasps, still he tries to resist the inevitable. "Noooo-" 

"Yes." 

He's on fire with the shame of it, wants to run away, but he can't move, Eames has him pinned with his words as well as his hand. 

"Say it, pet." 

"I'm -" Tears are blinding him. "I'm late because -" 

Another jolt and Arthur cries out. "Because I was -" He can't even turn his head now, Eames' hand is on his neck, holding him in place. He's completely overpowered, not by Eames' hand, but his will. The feeling of it, of his subjugation, the knowledge he has to obey, he has no choice in the matter, that he's naked and trembling in Eames' hands, is terrible and wonderful all at once. He feels it everywhere. 

"Moaning, say it, pet. 'I was moaning.'" 

"Moaning." 

"'On Eames' fingers.'" 

He can't say it, but Eames is inexorable, holding him at the cusp of orgasm, and he needs to come so bad, he knows he'll say anything, do anything, for Eames, so long as Eames tells him to do it, so long as Eames keeps giving him everything Arthur craves, so, so, much. "On…Eames'...fingers." His voice breaks, something in his chest snaps, he's crying in long, gasping shudders, and Eames' hand slows to a more gentle pace, drawing him back from the precipice but still not releasing him. 

When he's momentarily cried out, body feeling loosened somehow, warm and malleable, Eames leans over. Arthur feels the angle of his fingers change, the hand on him shifting, long before Eames' breath caresses his ear. "'Like a wanton.'" He says, crisply. 

Arthur repeats, feeling his submission coming from the deepest core of him, a string only Eames could pluck, "like a wanton." He arches under Eames touch. He is a wanton. It's all true. God, it's all true. 

"'That's why I'm late, Cobb.'" 

Arthur repeats it back to him, debased and exhilarated at the same time, as always when Eames takes him like this. 

"Good boy," Eames murmurs, lifting him up and replacing Eames' fingers with his cock. "That's my good boy." 

Eames gets in a few good strokes, holding them together with his arm across Arthur's chest, shirt pushed up out of his way, before he realizes there's no condom, that Eames is going to come inside him and then do his pants back up and make him go just like that. He can't stop the guttural moan the thought rips from him, how hard it makes his cock, red and bobbing as Eames fucks him. Eames is going to make him stand in the middle of the hotel room, cheeks pink with humiliation, waiting as Eames carefully washes himself and tidies up his own hair. Eames is going to make him ride in the hotel elevator with come dribbling out of him, and the smell of sex on him, where anyone could notice, anyone at all, could tell he'd been panting over a desk moments before, stripped of everything but his need. He won't be able to hide it. Eames is going to make him ride all the way down to the lobby like that, and walk him out to the waiting car where Cobb is checking his wristwatch even now, impatient. He squirms in the face of all the things Eames is going to make him do, make him admit, but Eames just pushes him back down over the desk, takes a bruisingly firm grip on his hips, and pistons into him. 

"Say it." 

Arthur lets go, lets go of everything, the sentence gusting out of him, and the last iota of resistance goes with it, "I'm your good boy." 

Eames comes in warm pulses inside him, and Arthur arches into him, feeling again that undeniable glow of pleasure that Eames chose him, that Eames could have had anyone and chose him. Sometimes he can barely contain his pride, because Eames came inside him, Eames chose _him_ to mark. Suddenly, he wishes Eames _would_ make him tell Cobb, would just sweep away all the lies and put him on display in the hotel window, a naked prize for all the world to see, put a collar and leash on him and never let him be anything else but his _pet_ , shuddering eagerly under Eames' touch. Eames releases him slightly so he can writhe on his cock, ecstatic, showing Eames how good he feels now Eames has come inside him, proven his mastery all over again. It's like an orgasm all its own, and he slowly relaxes with a contented sigh, even though his cock is still hard. 

Eames nuzzles into his neck, cock softening and slipping out, wet and messy against Arthur's skin. "That's it. I know you're a good boy, pet. You're my good boy." 

Arthur knows he is.


End file.
